Sex Weapon (18+)

"AH! GOOD TIMES!" I inhale against the high windows of my bedroom.

I stretch like a cat, purr like one, and take great deep breaths of the dusky evening. I let my lungs fill with the rich untainted breeze, let it wallow within me for a few seconds before expiring once more. I do this many, many times. Standing by the open view my windows grant, the panorama of Mythronos stares right back at me from the horizon. Day is almost over. The whispers of encroaching night pull at the senses, tempting away all worries. The pale curtains that partition the balcony ruffle at my side. The wind is in my hair. I smell baking flour from the streets, wisps of ready wine from barrels rolled down the alleys to opening pubs. It's the energy the night brings. Staring into the amber sunset with hands at my hips, oxygen in my lungs, smooth lyrics flow into my head.

When you call on me...when I hear you breathe,

I get wings to fly,

I feel light. I'm alive!

These are beautiful lyrics. Celine Dion's Wings To Fly. I hum the ambient tunes, recall the inspiring soundtrack. As I soak in the twilight, I'm wishing I'd transmigrated with at least some records. How could a world with such enticing landscape not have someone like Celine Dion to grace its beauty with lively music? Celtic Jigs just won't do.

"The good times." I repeat, placing both hands on the shined gold of the windowsill.

I feel it. I breathe it. The simpler times. The fun times. It's just that endless summer feeling. Of balmy afternoons skinny dipping in nearby creeks. Eastcreek had a lot of such. I suppose it's in the name. Of sunbathing with besties in lounges at private wild spots. Of sweltering Friday nights livened by open karaoke bars. Of the occasional morning thunderstorm and cozy snuggles by the fireplace. A spring break that never ends. In all my life, I've never wished this hard for late 20th century R&B.

Some Britney Spears. Dido. A lot of R. Kelly. Something to spice up the air 'round here. The castle is always extra imposing in the evenings.

Perhaps, this feeling to sing out loud stems from the dream I'd just awakened from. The one where I'd had my eighteenth made into a rom-com by a special boy. Lance was the first thought in my head the moment I opened my eyes. I remember him making that toast like it's yesterday, holding up his red cup like a sommelier at a wine tasting, blue eyes radiant like New Year's fireworks. Those are some of the best experiences I've ever had. And when I think about it, like really think about it, almost all of them involve a certain blond Viking. I wouldn't trade those memories for anything.

...not even for Lord Crave.

I'd slept for a whole day after the Inquisition Spell. Right through the evening of blacking out to this evening of the next day. My handmaids had gotten the memo—from Yennara no doubt—and no shuffling feet disturbed my rest this morning. I suppose a day absent cleaning would not do much damage to a room as well catered as that of a wealthy Queen. Blacking out after a powerful spell is one thing. Fainting on the throne is another. I wouldn't be this dandy if not for the pleasurable memory last night.

Lance is still in my head, like always. And since I can't yet slink back into the Dreamworld and thank him yet again—in more ways than one—for putting together such heartfelt party for me, I go with the next best thing.

His current self.

While Sir Lancelot Grimm of Mythronos may not remember going skinny dipping or snuggling or even kissing on prom night, he sure as hell does remember the chemistry we share. It's on an atomic level. Every piece of me to every piece of him, fitting like a puzzle. It makes me think of what else might fit. A particularly hard part of him that I think will fit perfectly with...more than one part of me?

Dear God! I chuckle over the evening breeze.

This is slutty Allie, peeking out every now and then, imagining dark enough things that'll make E L. James blush. I wouldn't say I didn't just imagine Lance's dick. How it'll look against my skin. My belly. My mouth. My...pussy. I wouldn't say I did either.

Not wanting to dull the high of this waking moment, I hurry to the baths. I swim a few laps in the pool, loving the feel of the water against my stroking limbs. The caresses over my gleaming skin only encourages my tempted mind to go places. Dangerous places. I hop out into a towel, discovering that this is the first time since I'd woken up here that I've actually bathed alone, and not in the company of a bashful handmaid holding an open bathrobe at the ready for me. My next stop is the dressing room. I fish out black tights—because no G-string in sight. I draw up heavy black trousers after. They look like something worn at boot camp. Fashionable though. I then go for the loosiest shirt I can find. It's autumn white and long sleeved. The strings engage up to my bust. My collarbone is exposed. Along with a tempting peek of cream handfuls—if you catch my drift.

I stare at myself in the mirror. Now I'm no narcissist...but this girl be looking fine as hell.

I just love my body.

I become six feet tall with the combat boots I pull on. It reaches up above my ankles and the ends of my pants tuck in the scruffs. When I walk, it's soundless. I fold up the sleeves of my shirt up my forearms. I keep my hair up in a tight bun, coiffed and pristine, with not a single strand out of place. My eyes are shaded in coal hues. Catty. Mascara on the face of Magdalena. I look like an army brat. A commandant. But that's not all...

At six feet, in boots and trousers, a folded up shirt and high coif, I am androgynous.

There is a boyish make-up about my look. It adds the necessary charms in the right places. But there's the flare of my hips in the trousers, the way my ass fills it up, the material tight on ample flesh. The teasing of my breasts, curves the shirt mould onto, flashes of pink areolas nearly invisible. But there. My dressing is meant to be bogus but also appealing. It opens up the mind to what could be. It's seduction as an art. I inspire the imagination, elicit eroticism. I am the fantasy.

A sex weapon...blond and in boots.

I give one final twirl before the mirror, executing it in Michael Jackson perfection.

I look like a freaking succubus.

This world. This crown. This body. All mine.

Bruce Springsteen's Glory Days starts playing in my head as I whip out the dressing room and start for the doors. The eyes of both guards by the doors widen at my exit. One of them chokes, fumbling in his bow. And that's telling enough. They can gape all they want. Staring is a man thing. Wanting to be desired is a woman thing. At the end, even guards are still men underneath the armor and capes. And with the figure on display, rocking it the way I am, they feast their eyes. But I'm not sexy for them. I'm not being the 'Hot Lesbian Commander' for the guards.

No.

This is for Lance.

He made me smile and sigh and laugh, right after a near-death experience. With just a dream he'd managed it. In reliving the memory, I get to feel how close we are...we've always been. And how, even after being sent to a parallel reality, I feel him still. In the magic of our connection. Others can stare but the one I really want looking at my getup is Lance. Thinking of his blue eyes on me adds a fresh jaunt to my steps. Just the heat of his gaze. I can't walk any faster.

Slutty Allie knows Lance fancies a bit of sapphic display—I may or may not have gotten the password to his Pornhub account. It was an honest mistake. I found it close to his Netflix's. And me being me, I just couldn't resist checking out what tickled the blond devil's fancy. At least in this world, I can give him a taste of it. And me knowing him the way I do, he's probably at the Guards Guild, the training quarters of the Royal Guard. Lance always does his workouts during evening.

Mercifully, the castle hallways are empty. I don't want anyone else seeing me in this before Lance. I feels a little like betrayal. I want his eyes on me. Only his beautiful blue eyes. Great domed arches and court gardens fan out before me as I hurry down some stone steps. I'd always seen majority of guards coming up this way, so it isn't hard to figure out they train here. I clear soundlessly through abandoned halls—and a cellar filled with wine barrels enough to last a generation of royalty, glad for my boots. Three minutes later, I meet a dead end.

A great stone wall twenty feet away, marking the northernmost part of the castle. The only other opening in sight is a room five feet across from where I stand. Warm yellow candlelight spills out from it to the hallway, illuminating the gravel floors. And I just know. This is it.

The evening sky is a dull gray as I step in through the open door.

"Lance?" I whisper at the exerting young man.

He stands with his back to me, swinging a silver longsword over a caricature wooden opponent. The muscles lining his back are corded. His arms are strong and veined, his legs long and swift. His blond hair shimmers from the light of a hundred candles lighting up the training area. There are a bunch of medieval arsenals splattered everywhere but I couldn't care less. I can't take my eyes off him. It's the first time in a long time I've seen him without a shirt.

How glorious?

His skin is gold. The sweat running down his back makes my mouth water. And here I thought I'd be the one doing the seducing. I take the briefest of moments to indulge my eyes to the fullest. It's a shard of time, a second before me calling his name reaches his ears. Still, I stare. Everything about this man is beautiful. He's wearing only loose gray pants. The waistband looks shaky. I pray it falls off. And I pray nothing but golden, strong Lance is underneath.

His sword is an extension of himself. The way he twirls it, feet nimble, his strokes like an artist's hand, his moves like a viper's strike. He dances. Moves like water. This is his element. This is Lance. All of him. With a brutal roundhouse kick, he decapitates the wooden foe, sending the head all the way to the other side of the room. Between Lance and myself, I'd say Crave has no chance. My thoughts freeze when he turns and sees me. And everything, absolutely everything, in my mind at this moment is him.

His eyes. His hair. His drip. Like a solar flare.

Gosh! He's even making me rhyme.

He looks at me.

Stares deeply.

His eyes are infernal.

Though we are some distance apart, I feel his gaze burn like embers over every inch of my exposed skin. It's working. But I'm not sure if I can keep up the roleplay any longer. I want him. Hard and fast. To grip me like his sword. To dance with him intimately. To feel his tiger energy. His bold masculinity. His eyes boil my mind, sends my poor heart into a frenzy. My fingers itch. I have never being this turned on in my entire life. Of all women in the empire, I lead. But alone with Lance, he leads. He's the only man I'd let dominate me.

Touch me. My skin is feverish with need.

Kiss me.

Fuck me.

Just...do something.

I'm going crazy here.

He has Lucifer's eyes. His blues are turned inside out. Deeper than the Pacific's trench. This is the unholy shade of Lance. The side of him he never lets out. Never shows anyone—especially me. Now I see it. It smothers. He is a fallen angel, with flaming orbs for eyes, emerging shirtless and sweaty from the rings of hell, his famed Excalibur stained crimson in the blood of a thousand demons. I realize I don't need any incentive to fantasize about Lance. The training room is on fire. Ablaze in our desire. He's fighting it. I can tell. One hand holds his sword in a death grip. The other draws blood as a clenched fist.

He burns away all my clothes with his eyes. And suddenly I'm standing there naked. Bare to the soul. His gaze roams my body, rough, demanding, not asking. The darkened orbs are on my breasts. My nipples point through the thin fabric of the shirt, towards his unforgiving eyes. My fresh tights are soaked. This man has me wet in seconds. I want to strip for him. To let him see just how aroused I am. Lance is the kind of man who'd spank my ass, call me naughty girl, and rip off my camo pants before I have a chance to pull it off. He'd fuck me in the boots I'm standing in, smack my titties and drive me crazy in delirium. He'd toss me all around the bed. And we'd fuck until our limbs are jelly. I don't even have to lift a finger. He's that kind of man.

Just when I think we are going to christen the Guards Guild in fever-pitch unholiness, Lance blinks. For the first time in three minutes. He finally moves his stiff fingers. His sword sings into his golden scabbard. And he puts it on, the strap hanging down his delicious abs and the ruby-topped handle peeking out from behind him. I swallow when he starts in my direction, moving sleek across the candle-lit room like a panther. But then, he walks right past me.

"Lance?" I whisper a second time.

He halts right beside me. A muscle flexes in his jaw. He is breathing hard. We both are. We don't look at each other. I face forward towards the wall of weaponry. He faces the door. But he can't bring himself to leave. His feet are bare and even with my boots, he still has a good four inches over me.

"It's okay." I hush.

My fingers find his in the space between us...

And suddenly, I'm in the air.

I'm whipped off my feet to the nearest wall. I barely manage to lift up my hands to the solid stone before I collide with it. I shiver facing the rough stone.

Jesus! This man's sexuality? It scalds me wide open.

"No. It's not okay." Lance growls in my ear. He is behind me. A fuming solidness. His heat seeps into mine. His large hand fists my hair, pinning me to the wall. "You don't get to come in here looking like that. No, Allie." I feel the sweat from his forearm where he holds me. Energy rolls off him in waves. He's taller. Stronger. Bulkier. Enveloping. A god. I don't dare move. "You try to seduce me." His teeth grind over my nape and I shudder, rising up on the tips of my boots. "But you don't need to." I feel his hand, the one not keeping me to the walls find both my wrists. He drags them behind me, making me lax in his grip. "Feel it," he thunders. "Feel what you want. What you think you can handle." He keeps my wrists locked behind me, in the space between us. And he pushes closer.

"God!" I gasp at the contact.

I–Is that h–his dick?

It's like another limb between us. It's hot and heavy. I want to feel more. Wantonly, I grind my ass over the massive rise. But his grip tightens, both on my wrists and hair. He drags me by my hair, exposing my neck to his teeth. He inhales deeply over the soft skin.

"When the time is right, Your Majesty," he lowers his voice seductively. "I will fuck you, your mouth, your wet pussy, your ass. But until then, don't tempt me, Allie."

And just like that, he releases me. I remain in that position, with my hands behind my back a long time. I no longer smell sweat and male potency so I can tell he's gone. But I just stand there. I can't breathe. My skin is tight. I need fucking release. But his words...

To imagine the raging monster I'd felt in my mouth.

In my wet pussy.

In my...ass?

Seven fucking rings of Hell!

I turn around from the wall and sink to the stone floor. Candle light bathes my still shivering form.

I may be female and fierce. But I am a vassal under him.

Lance is the ultimate sex weapon.

And he's just taken a shot at me, right between the fucking legs.